


47's day off

by ginger_green



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Autistic Character, Domestic, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: Everyone needs rest. Even you, 47.
Relationships: Agent 47 & Diana Burnwood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	47's day off

Before anything, there is salt. Cold water. Cherry-sized heart beating in a frail ribcage, pushing through translucent skin. Thick walls of a large glass tank. And the shadow behind it. Staring.

There is no way he could remember that. Nobody can. But he does. In a second his eyes will open. The tank will shatter. And the small sack of muscle, barely capable of sensing the world around it, will be no more.

The little creature falls asleep. The man wakes up.

He's in a pastel-colored room, in a bed with soft sheets, fake flowers hanging above the pillow. The room smells of paint and bleached fabric. He likes the smell, but the interior isn't pleasing. It makes him think of home, everything clean and sterile, blinding sunlight, single-use napkins, little pieces of soap wrapped in crackly plastic. He fits too well in here. He's practically landscape. Like that painting in the west corner, a soulless depiction of yarn and three kittens. It's always kittens. Why not pick something original? Like birds. Or rabbits.

What date is it? Yesterday he was in Morocco. Today he's... here. Yes. _Here_ will do for now.

He checks the watch on his nightstand. It's eight o'clock as it always is. He hasn't learned to sleep in. There's no use trying. It's like having a small music box crafted into your temple, and every spin of its handle sends gentle tingling across the skull. It gives him a kind of drive, a sense of order and purpose.

Today, however, there is no purpose. There is no work. No contract.

He buries his face into the pillow. The smell of laundry and the smooth touch of cotton soothe him. He can feel seconds passing, but he has no urge to get up. It's unusual. Worrying, like he's getting sick. But... pleasant.

Why isn't there another contract? Diana has always provided for him, so why not now? Simply busy or is there a problem? Has he missed her call? No. He doesn't miss.

The pillow is heating up under his cheek. Finally, he gets up.

His phone is where he left it, on the chair with his clothes. It's a cheap knock-off, an empty shell to be used and then discarded when he's done with the job. He looks at the call registry; it's empty. He taps on the screen again and again. The rhythm of his thumb is catchy. Why isn't Diana calling? He wonders. He waits five minutes and then five more. The sunlight is crawling slowly towards his toes. He pulls his feet back onto the mattress.

There is a pattern in his seemingly chaotic line of work. In the morning his phone rings. A contract is struck; someone has to die. He works until it happens. He exits the stage without applause and disappears. He washes off the blood and sleeps well through the night. In the morning, the phone rings.

The twenty-year old routine is broken, however, and he is... upset. It's like an itch that you can't get rid of - the more you're scratching, the more it burns. He pushes the feeling down the best he can, but soon the wave of anxiety starts pushing back.

He stands up, careful not to touch the spot of sunlight on the floor. He takes a quick shower and puts his clothes on as methodically as he does everything else. It's always the same sequence. Hot water down the back. Fingertips sliding down along the perfectly smooth, hairless skin. Distant wondering - the lack of hair draws parallel with a reptile. Underwear, trousers, shirt, jacket. Pin the sleeves one by one. And the tie. The smaller routine is comforting to the anxiety.

He whips a small black notebook out of his watch pocket. There's a short list of numbers with no names. Useless to the outsider - a common safety precaution. He picks out the right number by memory.

_Need more work. -47_

Only a moment passes before his phone replies with a ring. He's already checking it, impatient - an unfamiliar state further worsening the anxiety.

_Nothing available right now. Will inform you of any changes._

He breathes out slowly. At least she's safe. Good. He can work with that.

His phone rings again.

_Are you alright?_

The question is a warm breeze melting his worries. Like a hand on the back of his head, the never-known touch of motherly love, only seldom slipping through the cracks in her alabaster skin. His thumb freezes. He considers his answer carefully.

There is no work. Without work, he grows restless like a caged tiger. Normality suffocates him. It is a constant reminder of what he can never have. Everything falls apart without the numbness of his busy days.

He frowns when realizing he's kept her waiting for too long. It isn't like him.

_Yes._

_Everyone needs rest. Even you, 47. Shore leave until further notice. Consider this your special assignment._

Special assignment. Yes. That could work. He stands still a few moments, wondering what an ordinary man would do with his time.

He starts with food.

He's not a vegetarian but he avoids meat when possible. Wouldn't like having his mouth water when a stray blood splatter gets past his lips. He also cooks for himself - professional courtesy, so to speak. Food doesn't bring him pleasure, but there is calm in satiety; it's preferable. He lives on exactly three kinds of food. Apricot jam. Plain soba. Occasionally, chips.

A flock of yellow parakeets gather on the sill while he cooks. He pays them no mind but crushes a handful of dry noodles in his fist and spreads the crumbs near the open window. At first the birds are cautious. Then, one by one, a few make it inside. He makes no threatening moves, and little by little they come to accept him. The sight of living creatures not being afraid of his presence brings him a special type of comfort. He likes to think it helps him blend in, but the truth is... he needs them.

Twenty years ago there was no place in his life for parakeets, let alone aesthetic preferences or friendship. Has midlife changed him, or is he simply waking up after a long drug-induced coma?

Without the keys to the past, he cannot tell. He just remembers cranberry-colored eyes of a rabbit. Red on the snow. Bigger hand clutching his own. It's far away, not really his memories.

The glass tank, however, he remembers well. As if it was the tank that gave him shape, molded him into a weapon. As if the very fact of his birth had predetermined the outcome.

But he's a rebel. And the little creature in the glass tank is a rebel too. Even his work is an act of quiet rebellion - taking contracts, being paid for his craft, having the time to himself, having the power to choose when and how to take life.

 _Rebel._ He stretches his hand out, perfectly still, and waits. _Rebel._ One of the parakeets lands onto his finger, little sharp claws digging into the skin. Its eyes are two black droplets. He can see his own face on their shimmering surface. _Rebel._ The bird watches him with question. _Rebel. Rebel. Rebel._

Slowly, gently, he pats the bird's head. His fingers drown in soft feathers. Yellow and green, sharp against the pale white of his skin.

"I think I might need a walk," he informs his new friend very seriously. "Care to join me?"

And he smiles.


End file.
